


i'm not a scholar (but i want to learn everything about you)

by AirierVessel



Category: Cosmere - Brandon Sanderson, Stormlight Archive - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Kaladin, Bisexual Adolin Kholin, Bisexual Shallan Davar, Book 02: Words of Radiance, Book 02: Words of Radiance Spoilers, Book 03: Oathbringer, Book 03: Oathbringer Spoilers, Canon Bisexual Character, F/M, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, a retelling of canon based on I Want Them To Be Together, adolin stays in the same cell as kaladin in wor, kind of a triple character study + relationship study + exploration of canon, there was only one bed (but a bit to the left bc kaladin's a prude)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:28:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29293674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AirierVessel/pseuds/AirierVessel
Summary: It's outrageous for Elhokar to call for Kaladin's execution, and Adolin makes his opinion known before he even sets foot in the prison. He intends to go into a cell near the entrance, where he can keep an eye on the door and stop any executioners they may send in, but he finds himself staring down the hallway to where they've put the bridgeboy.He feels a breeze that somehow feels both cool and warm on the back of his neck, and follows it and his instincts further into the building, putting himself in Kaladin Stormblessed's cell before he can think about it too much.Maybe he should have, but he's in too deep now.
Relationships: Kaladin & Sylphrena (Stormlight Archive), Kaladin/Adolin Kholin, Kaladin/Happiness, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Shallan Davar/Adolin Kholin, Shallan Davar/Kaladin, Shallan Davar/Kaladin/Adolin Kholin
Comments: 11
Kudos: 56





	i'm not a scholar (but i want to learn everything about you)

Kaladin paces restlessly. He doesn’t know how long he’s been in here, but it can’t be longer than a few hours yet. But  _ storms _ , he hates being in here. There isn’t even a window in Kaladin’s cell — for the first time since discovering his powers, since his time as a slave before the bridge crews, even, Kaladin is completely cut off from the sky. 

Syl is equally restless, but she radiates concern rather than Kaladin’s own feelings of annoyance and frustration. Still, she doesn’t settle down as much as usual, instead flitting around his head and the room as a ribbon of light, rarely remaining in one place for longer than a few seconds at a time. Occasionally she’ll alight on his shoulder or on the stone slab of a bed as a young woman, but she never stays there for long, seeming just as bothered as he is by their separation from the winds.

There’s a commotion in the hall, and Kaladin glances toward the door as voices pass, but he can’t pick out what they’re saying, and they move on before he can bother to do more than notice them. He continues pacing, counting his steps around the room.  _ One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.  _ As his frustration grows, he measures his breaths to the steps, inhaling for a circuit of the room, then exhaling for another circuit. It gives him something to focus on besides his own thoughts, and it reminds him of bridge runs, counting steps to pass the time, to measure breaths and heartbeats. Only this count will never end — he doesn’t have a destination, just endless circles to pace. 

_ Journey before destination _ . 

The words come unbidden to his mind, and he sends a glance to Syl, who alights on the bed as a woman and gives him a brief smile before flying around his head as a ribbon of light. He resumes counting, trying not to think of the events of the day. 

The commotion outside dies down, and after a few more minutes of his restless pacing, Syl twirls around his head in a brief goodbye before slipping through the crack between the door and the wall. He figures she’s just going to check out the noise, and he silently hopes that she takes the opportunity to fly around outside for a bit. Just because he’s trapped here doesn’t mean she should be too, even if he is jealous of her ability to leave at will and return to the sky. 

She’s gone for longer than he expects, and he shoves down the bitterness that wells up at the thought of her flying on the winds.  _ She doesn’t deserve to be stuck here with me _ , he thinks, wincing at the dark path that thought leads him to. He paces faster, stubbornly counting the steps just to give himself something, anything to focus on outside of his own mind. 

Syl returns a moment later, flying around his head as a ribbon of light before shifting into a young woman and stepping up in front of his face, a wide, devious grin on her face. “What?” Kaladin asks, knowing from experience to worry at the sight of that expression on his spren. “Syl, what did you do?”

“Not much,” she says in a singsong voice, giggling and settling on top of his head. He can’t feel her, but he can imagine her sitting down, her ankles crossed and hanging in front of his forehead. There’s another commotion outside — the sound of several voices crying out and moving towards Kaladin’s door. He tenses, instinctively reaching for his belt knife, then silently cursing when he realizes it’s not there. He readies himself anyway, preparing for a fight even as he recognizes the voices outside as pleading, not attacking. 

“Brightlord, please,” one of them says. “The same cell? This is hardly-”

“Look, Bruil,” another voice cuts off the first, and Kaladin jolts when he recognizes it -- is that  _ Adolin _ ? “I swear on my honor, on my  _ father’s _ honor, that I won’t use my Shardblade to break out. And, honestly, are you going to stop me?”

“I-'' the first voice, Bruil, cuts off with a sigh. “Alright, Brightlord.” There’s a jingle of keys in the lock of Kaladin’s cell, and he tenses again, falling into a defensive stance. The door swings inward, revealing a resigned-looking darkeyed soldier -- the same one who gave him that subtle salute earlier -- followed by Adolin. “We’ll bring supper at eighth bell,” Bruil says. 

“Excellent,” Adolin replies, stepping into the room. He looks around the cell, nodding towards the slab of a bed on the other side of it. “If we could get a few more blankets, too, please, Bruil.” 

“Of course, Brightlord,” Bruil says with a salute, glancing to Kaladin with an odd expression before giving him a salute as well. Then he steps out, closing the door and clicking the lock into place. 

Syl leaps off Kaladin’s head to fly around Adolin, before zipping back and landing in the air in front of Kaladin, beaming at him. “What in Damnation is going on?” he demands, glancing at his spren before focusing on Adolin, barely understanding what’s happening here. 

“I put myself in a cell in protest,” Adolin says with a shrug, seeming to completely ignore the way Kaladin’s jaw drops dumbly. “And to make sure they didn’t try to send anyone in to execute you. Your bridgemen are guarding the building, of course, but since I’m a Shardbearer, it’d be a lot harder to get by me, especially if I’m here all the time too.”

Kaladin blinks, still staring at him. “But...why are you  _ here _ ?” He still can’t fully believe that the princeling would do that for him, would put himself in storming prison for who knows how long, though it does explain the commotion from earlier. It still doesn’t explain why he’s in the same cell as Kaladin and seeming to make himself at home, settling down on the bed and leaning his back against the wall, one leg pulled up while the other stretches out. 

Adolin shrugs. “It should do even more to keep them from sending in an executioner to have me in here too. My father is working on talking Elhokar down, though. I don’t think he’ll actually try to have you killed at this point, but just in case,” Adolin replies, stretching his arms over his head. “Besides, it’d be boring for both of us to be in here alone. This way we can keep each other company.”

Syl walks upwards in front of Kaladin as if she’s climbing a staircase, stopping in front of his eyes. “I didn’t really do anything,” she says earnestly. “He can’t see me, so I just stuck his shoe to the floor for a second and made a wind towards your cell. I think he was already thinking about it.”

Kaladin doesn’t give her a verbal response, instead looking past her to Adolin as she becomes a ribbon of light and twirls around his head. “You said the bridgemen are guarding the building. Who’s guarding your family?” 

“They’ve added it to their rotation. As far as I can tell, they’ve cut into their off time to add it to their schedule. Ren says that Teft said it was optional, but they’re all doing it.” 

Kaladin scowls. “They’ll all pass out from exhaustion,” he scoffs, but his heart warms at the thought of the bridgemen being so insistent about keeping an eye out for him. 

“You’re one to talk, bridgeboy!” Adolin laughs. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone with bags under their eyes quite like yours. Do you ever sleep?”

“When I feel safe,” Kaladin responds honestly. “When those important to me are safe.” 

Adolin goes silent, and understanding passes between them. The Assassin in White is still out there, making it hard for either of them to feel safe. “Well, your bridgemen are guarding the doors and the rest of my family. I’m here with a Shardblade just ten heartbeats away. It’s hard to get much safer than this.”

“I’m still in prison, Adolin,” Kaladin replies drily. Silently, he longs for the sky, for the wind in his hair and the sun on his face. He’ll only really feel safe with Stormlight in his pocket and a spear in his hands, but that’s not going to happen here. 

“We’ll be out soon,” Adolin promises, then leans his head back against the wall. “I’m going to nap a bit. Wake me up in time for dinner please, bridgeboy?” Kaladin grunts in response, beginning his pacing once more. Adolin goes silent, his breaths evening out into light snores. 

“Really, Syl?” Kaladin hisses when he’s sure Adolin is asleep. 

Syl hovers in front of him, stopping in the air and crossing her arms, forcing him to pause his pacing. “Look me in the eye and tell me you should be alone right now, Kaladin,” she says quietly, and Kaladin opens his mouth, then scowls. He really can’t lie to her. Not when she’s so serious. She gives him a soft smile, drifting to sit on his shoulder and lay a hand on his cheek. “It’ll be good for you, you’ll see. He’s a good man, Kaladin.”

“I thought you didn’t like him for carrying a Blade,” Kaladin whispers, resuming his circular pacing. 

Syl hums thoughtfully. “He’s different,” she replies. “It’s horrible, but he’s still….respectful, I suppose. As respectful as he can be, anyway.” 

Kaladin grunts, then lets silence lapse between them for a time, resuming his mental count. “You could go outside, you know,” he finally breathes. “Go fly for a while. You don’t have to stay cooped up in here with me.” 

“I’ll fly when you do,” Syl says with an air of finality, and Kaladin knows he should fight her on this, knows that she’ll wilt in captivity, as he certainly will, but he can’t bring himself to do it. Her company may not be all he has anymore, not with Adolin here, but it has been all he’s had before, and he appreciates it more than she may realize. 

\----------

As Kaladin hears eighth bell ring outside, he nudges Adolin’s leg with his foot. “Time to get up, princeling,” he says, crossing his arms as Adolin yawns widely, stretching as he stands up. 

“Thanks,” the prince says, and before Kaladin can respond there’s the sound of keys in the lock of their door, which swings open to admit a soldier -- not Bruil, but one that Kaladin doesn’t recognize, though he also wears a perfectly-maintained Kholin uniform. He holds a tray in both hands, and Adolin gestures for him to set it down on the now-vacant bed slab. The soldier does, then offers Kaladin a crisp salute and Adolin a low bow before retreating. Adolin follows him to the door, speaking with him lowly. Kaladn hears a quiet “yes, Brightlord,” before the door closes and the lock clicks. 

Kaladin takes one of the steaming bowls -- Soulcast grain with a spicy curry over it -- and sits on the floor near the bed, his back against the wall. Adolin sits across from him and grabs the other bowl. They eat in silence, Syl flitting between investigating the now-empty tray and Adolin himself, clearly invisible to the man. “He eats just a  _ bit _ more fancy than you, Kaladin,” she remarks, and Kaladin can’t help but roll his eyes.  _ He’s a lighteyes _ , he thinks. Syl must be able to hear him through the bond, because she rolls her eyes and sticks her tongue out at him before turning into a ribbon of light and flying around his head. “I’m going to check on the bridgeman guards,” she says before flitting to the door and out of sight.    


Kaladin watches her go, thankful that she’s able to keep an eye on them for him -- he knows they’ll pull long shifts in order to guard the building, and while he’s thankful for their loyalty, he also needs them to be well-rested. The threat of the Assassin is still a real one, and if he comes while both Kaladin  _ and  _ Adolin are in prison...Dalinar needs his guards to be as alert as possible. 

And even if that weren’t the case, Kaladin cares about his men. It’s bad for a man to push himself too hard. As much as he realizes the irony of him forcing rest onto his men, he can’t help it. He cares about them, storm it, and he won’t have them working themselves to exhaustion on his account. 

Syl returns a few minutes later, brushing near Kaladin’s ear with a small gust of wind before swirling around Adolin, who continues eating without realizing how close Syl gets to him as she inspects his face. They continue eating in silence for a time, and though Adolin tries to begin a conversation a few times, Kaladin isn’t in the mood -- he still feels restless, like he’s full of Stormlight urging him to act even though he hasn’t taken any in since being locked in here. Adolin drops the conversation without issue, seeming content to lean back on his hands and heave a contented sigh once he finishes his food. 

Kaladin pulls a knee up towards his chest and rests his arm across it, setting his empty bowl down on the floor next to him. “Ooh, he’s  _ brooding _ ,” Syl whispers conspiratorially, pulling a scowl from Kaladin. Adolin seems to notice at the same time, his lips curling up in a grin. 

“And here we see the bridgeboy in his natural state,” Adolin teases, and Kaladin fights the urge to wince. He actually sees Syl deflate a little above Adolin, though the princeling surely didn’t mean anything harmful by it.  _ He doesn’t know that the skies are mine. None of them do, _ Kaladin reminds himself. He has to continually remind himself that this particular punishment isn’t targeted -- they don’t know what they’re doing to him, separating him from the winds like this. Prison isn’t enjoyable for most men, true, but they don’t realize how much  _ worse  _ it is for Kaladin. 

“Hardly,” Kaladin replies quietly, turning his face away from Adolin, who seems to realize he’s made a mistake. 

“Sorry,” the princeling says, surprising Kaladin again, as he always seems to do. “Don’t worry, though. We’ll be out of here in no time.” 

Kaladin raises an eyebrow, looking up at him. “You can leave anytime you’d like, _Brightlord_ ,” he says, probably putting too much bitterness into his tone on the last word, but Adolin just shrugs and shakes his head. 

“I won’t, though. I meant what I told my father and Elhokar, though I suppose you weren’t there to hear it.” He leans forward, his expression somehow serious without losing its open honesty and kindness. “You showed more honor in that arena than anyone else, the king included. Well, except my brother, but you know.” He waves a hand dismissively, seeming to refocus himself. “If you deserve to be in prison for that, then I’ll be here too. And besides,” he scowls, crossing his arms and leaning back again. “It wasn’t right for Elhokar to jump to execution, and I’m pretty sure my father won’t let him go through with that, but he was still shouting about it when I came in here, so I’m not letting my guard down yet.”

Kaladin blinks, remembering Adolin saying something like that earlier, too.  _ He really is a good man, _ he thinks before he can stop himself. Syl alights on his shoulder, and he can practically feel the smugness radiating off of her in waves. “He does still have that Blade,” she whispers. “It’s hard for me to forgive that. But other than that, yes, I think I agree.” 

With that, she turns into a ribbon of light and goes to explore the far corner of the room, leaving Kaladin to marvel at the fact that his spren just gave her approval for a  _ Shardbearer. _

The sound of keys in the lock has Kaladin jolting to his feet, and in the corner of his eye he sees Adolin do the same, though the prince relaxes when it turns out to just be the same soldier who brought their dinner, this time carrying a large bucket. Kaladin doesn’t relax, keeping his back to the wall as the soldier sets the bucket down in the center of the room, revealing that it’s full of steaming water with a couple of sponges floating in it. The soldier pulls a bottle and a bar of soap from where he’d held them under his arm while his hands were full and hands them to Adolin, who nods in thanks. 

“You’re in luck, Brightlord,” he says, with a strong Kholinar accent. “Our heating fabrials got new gemstones after this morning’s highstorm, so we got you some hot water. Can’t guarantee that every day, of course, but…” He trails off when Adolin claps a hand on his shoulder, offering a grin. 

“Thanks, Haleb,” the prince says, and the soldier grins back and salutes the prince before turning to Kaladin and offering the same crisp salute. Then he gathers the tray with the empty bowls on it -- Adolin must have collected them when Kaladin was still searching for a threat -- and leaves, closing the door behind him. The prince, meanwhile, begins undoing the buttons on his coat, and Kaladin finally recovers from his shock enough to speak.

“A  _ hot bath _ ? We’re in  _ prison _ and you ordered a  _ hot bath _ ?” He demands, watching as Adolin shrugs out of his coat and lays it on the bed, then begins working on the laces of his undershirt. 

“I just told him I’d take a bit of a wash after dinner, I didn’t ask him to heat it,” the prince replies. “Besides, why wouldn’t I bathe in prison? We’re locked up, not  _ savages _ .”

Kaladin thinks back to his time as a slave, to only being able to wash a bit of the dirt and grime off in the riddens of highstorms, to never being able to get fully clean. His time since becoming Dalinar’s bodyguard has been the first chance to really bathe that he’s gotten practically since being sold into slavery. He absently raises a hand to his forehead, feeling at the scars there, and he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it until Adolin winces, pulling his shirt off and leaving him bare-chested. 

“Sorry,” the prince says quietly. “Guess that was pretty insensitive of me, huh? Storms, I swore I’d work on that, too. I’m sorry, bridgeboy.” 

Kaladin lowers his hand and nods in thanks, finally moving to take his own coat off. He idly wonders at the irony of Adolin calling him  _ bridgeboy  _ while trying to sincerely apologize, but for once it doesn’t bother him. For the first time, he sees the nickname as just that: a lighthearted, friendly nickname. Once he has his own shirt off, he leans down to the bucket, grabbing one of the sponges and squeezing the excess water out. He takes the bar of soap and begins working it into the wet sponge, though his brows furrow as he watches Adolin across from him. 

The prince starts by dipping his hands in the bucket to wet them, then he picks up the bottle he got from Haleb and pulls the cork out, tipping some of the substance inside onto his free hand. He sits cross-legged on the ground as he sets the bottle down again, then rubs his hands together, causing the substance to foam up and release a subtle fragrance. Kaladin can’t help but raise his eyebrows -- he hasn’t used  _ scented soap _ since....well, ever, actually. In the bridge crews they would pass around a bar of soap as they rinsed off in storm riddens, and of course he bathed regularly as a child in Hearthstone and as a soldier in Amaram’s army, but never with  _ scented soaps _ . Those were for lighteyes. 

Adolin actually rubs the soap into his  _ hair _ , then uses the sponge, saturated with water, to squeeze clean water over it and rinse it out, holding his head over the large bucket to keep too much water from running onto the floor. Then, hair dripping wet and clinging to his forehead, he looks to Kaladin. “Done with that soap yet, bridgeboy?” He asks, gesturing to the bar in Kaladin’s hands, still frozen where he’d been rubbing the bar and sponge together. 

“You use special soap for your hair?” Kaladin asks, passing the soap over. “What am I talking about, why am I even surprised,” he mutters, rubbing the soapy sponge over his left shoulder and down his arm. 

Adolin just shrugs, grinning, working the soap into his own sponge, having to push his wet hair out of his eyes. “You should try it sometime. It’s pretty nice,” he says, and Kaladin scoffs.

“And have my hair smell like a woman’s dressing room? No thank you.”

Adolin rolls his eyes. “There are different scents for men, you know,” he says. “There’s more flowery ones for women, of course, but the masculine scents are a bit more subtle.”

Kaladin just shakes his head and refocuses on getting clean, though it’s difficult to reach the center of his back with the small sponge. Adolin, to his surprise, steps closer after a moment of Kaladin struggling to reach one spot on his back that’s decided to itch -- he actually wonders if Syl caused it somehow. “Can I help?” Adolin asks, gesturing to Kaladin’s sponge. Kaladin looks between Adolin’s hand and his face, then finally sighs and nods, holding out his sponge and turning his back to Adolin. 

He hears a quiet splash, and it must have been Adolin dipping the sponge back into the hot water, because it feels absolutely  _ incredible _ when the prince puts it back on his skin. The prince has one hand on Kaladin’s shoulder, holding him still while the other firmly glides the brush over the plane of Kaladin’s back. “You’re really tense, Kaladin,” Adolin says, his voice quiet in the small space between them, and Kaladin is shocked to realize how  _ close  _ he sounds, especially since he can’t see Adolin. 

“Do you blame me?” He whispers back, as Adolin gently brushes his long hair off his neck and shoulders, moving it to hang over Kaladin’s shoulder onto his chest so Adolin can reach his nape and shoulders. 

“No, I guess not,” the prince replies, and silence hovers between them, somehow heavy at their closeness but comfortable all at once. The bridgemen help each other wash sometimes, of course, but it’s never been this.... _ soft _ , Kaladin thinks. It’s always amid them jostling to get in line for Rock to shave them, or joking and laughing as they always tend to do. It’s always just a quick pass of the soap over each other’s backs before passing it on to the next man. It’s never like this, quiet and soft and careful. 

It feels almost like a massage, the sponge moving down Kaladin’s spine with Adolin’s free hand following, smoothing over the muscles and encouraging Kaladin to relax. The prince seems to pay special attention to the upper parts of Kaladin’s shoulders, where he knows he often ends up with knots from tension and stress. Against his will, Kaladin’s eyes flutter closed as his head falls forward slightly, unable to think of anything except how  _ storming nice  _ that feels. 

Adolin finishes and steps back, and Kaladin blinks his eyes open, the situation coming back to him in a rush and heating his face to what is almost certainly a bright red. He turns to look at Adolin, having to tilt his head down slightly to meet the prince’s eyes now that they’re standing so much closer. He opens his mouth and tries to speak, but ends up having to clear his throat before nodding towards the sponge in Adolin’s hand. “Do you want me to -- also-”

Adolin seems to understand, thankfully, and shrugs with that same smile. “If you’d like. You don’t have to, though.” 

Kaladin nods, but reaches forward to take the sponge anyway. He can still feel the redness in his face, and he doesn’t even really understand why he’s doing this. He just feels an urge to do the same for Adolin that the prince did for him. Even though there were no oaths made, it still doesn’t feel right to just walk away without extending the same courtesy. 

(The thought still doesn’t sit quite right with Kaladin, as it feels like what just happened goes beyond simple  _ courtesy _ , but he can’t form any thoughts more coherent than that, so he stops trying.)

Copying what Adolin did, he dips the sponge in the water and squeezes it again, then steps closer to Adolin and places one hand on the prince’s shoulder, barely applying any pressure. He runs the sponge down the center of Adolin’s back, prompting an audible sigh from the man. Kaladin freezes in place, and Adolin looks over his shoulder at him, a smile tugging at his lips. “It feels nice, Kal,” he says quietly, and Kaladin feels his face heat up even further as he nods and refocuses on his task. 

He moves the sponge up and down in a vague rhythm, trying to get every inch of Adolin’s back and apply enough pressure that he feels it, but not so much that it's uncomfortable. He pays close attention to every reaction from the prince, noting when every muscle jumps or relaxes, every long breath he lets out. He tries to give Adolin the same ministrations the prince gave him, finding tension just below the nape of his neck and pressing there, then moving his fingers down Adolin’s spine, applying pressure all the way. Adolin leans into the touch, a pleased hum escaping him. 

The sound has both of them freezing, as it seems to remind them both of where they are and what exactly they’re doing. Kaladin swallows, giving Adolin’s back a last cursory swipe with the sponge before stepping back and clearing his throat, looking away from the princeling before he even turns around. 

He spots a stack of fabric next to the door -- the soldiers must have dropped off those blankets Adolin asked for while they were bathing.  _ Storms _ , Kaladin hopes they didn’t see that...whatever that was that just happened. Grateful for the distraction, he moves over to the stack and is glad to find a couple of towels on top of the blankets. He picks them up and tosses one to Adolin, using the other to cover his face in the pretense of drying it off, though it truthfully didn’t even get wet. 

When he emerges, Adolin is facing away from him, and Syl is sitting in the air right in front of Kaladin’s nose, her legs swinging. “Humans are so  _ weird! _ ” She exclaims, and he scowls and turns away from her, not wanting to have to try to whisper an explanation of what just happened when  _ he  _ doesn’t even know what just happened. Thankfully, she seems satisfied to just investigate their reactions, moving between him and Adolin to study their faces. 

They dress again, though they both leave their coats off, and Kaladin allows Adolin to fold his Bridge Four coat and stack it carefully in the corner with Adolin’s own. As Adolin works on that, Kaladin spreads a blanket out on the shelf that will serve as a bed for one of them. He’s really not sure how well Adolin thought this plan through — they’re going to have to figure out a sleeping arrangement somehow, and the closest thing to a privy they have is a chamber pot. 

Kaladin honestly isn’t that bothered by the thought of using it with Adolin here, though — he’s stayed in plenty of barracks before with the same, though he isn’t sure of Adolin’s experience with normal soldier barracks. He thinks he remembers Adolin mentioning that Dalinar made him serve on regular spearman squads before getting his first command and his Shardblade, though, and he wonders if that extended to staying in their barracks, as well. 

At one time, he would have dismissed the thought immediately, waving it off and thinking that no lighteyes would stoop to such a level, but now that he knows Adolin and Dalinar, he finds he wouldn’t be surprised if they  _ both  _ had spent time living in spearman barracks. Heralds know Dalinar’s own quarters aren’t that much nicer than a normal officer’s, despite his station as highprince. 

“You could sleep, if you wanted,” Adolin’s voice comes from behind him, and Kaladin turns to see him sitting on what looks like a makeshift cot, made of the several remaining blankets from the stack. “I slept earlier. I can keep watch.”

Kaladin just raises an eyebrow at him, prompting a sigh from Adolin and a frustrated huff from Syl where she hovers nearby. “I’ll be fine,” Kaladin says to both of them, sitting on the bed with his back to the corner wall, one leg stretched out in front of him and the other pulled up, his elbow resting on the knee. He hears Adolin shift to his left, but doesn’t look at him, instead getting comfortable and ready for a long night of trying not to think too much, despite having nothing else to do. 

Some time later, Kaladin hears Adolin’s quiet snores, and glances over to find him asleep sitting up, his chin drooping onto his chest and his arms crossed. Kaladin shakes his head, turning forward again and finding Syl standing there, a curious expression on her face. “Why do humans use soap?” She asks, and Kaladin can’t help but smile slightly. Now that Adolin’s asleep, she’s decided to try to distract him with conversation — hopefully, it’ll remain in innocent territory and away from any confusing and difficult topics. 

He starts in on a quiet discussion of rotspren and their understanding of them, as well as the general health benefits to good hygiene, and finds that the hours melt away much faster with her to keep him out of his own head. 

—————

**_A week later_ **

As much as he clearly doesn’t want to admit it, it’s good for the bridgeboy to have Adolin here with him, and Adolin can tell that he knows it too. Kaladin slips into brooding a bit too often, even for him, and the tension in his back that Adolin noticed on that first night has only gotten worse as they’ve spent longer in the cell. He does what he can to lighten Kaladin’s mood, even if all he can do is provide a brief distraction from his own mind. 

“Try it  _ once _ , bridgeboy, come on,” Adolin whines, proffering the scented hair soap to him, his own hair already washed and rinsed out. It hangs slightly longer than he usually keeps it, and he can see the tips just above his eyes as he blinks to keep the water from dripping into them. Finally he just brushes a hand through the dripping locks and pushes them straight back and out of the way. 

“No,” Kaladin says flatly, not even looking at Adolin as he scrubs his arms down with a sponge. 

“Come on, it’s not  _ feminine _ . Plenty of men use it. And honestly, your hair needs some attention. It’s starting to get painful to look at.” Adolin makes sure to keep his tone teasing and light, as he’s begun to realize over the last few days that Kaladin sometimes struggles to identify teases from insults in a way that reminds Adolin shockingly of Renarin. 

Still, there’s a kernel of truth to his words — Kaladin rarely does more than rinse his hair out with water, and he only does that about every third day. The long locks are constantly tangled and frizzy, and Adolin mourns the fact that he hasn’t been able to get a nice brush in here. Kaladin never looked like this while on duty, usually keeping his hair brushed and often pulled back off his face, but clearly he doesn’t have a brush here, or even deem it important to try to care for his hair while he’s locked away in here. 

Kaladin at least glances at him, slightly less of a scowl on his face, but he still looks hesitant as he eyes the bottle. “No one’s here but me, Kal,” Adolin says quietly, giving him a reassuring smile. “I promise you’ll feel better if you let me do your hair. It can get you down even more to let it get tangled like that. You’ll feel more like a soldier with it clean and brushed.”

That seems to get to him, and Kaladin nods once, quickly and firmly, as if trying to respond before he changes his mind. Adolin beams and leans over to drag the bucket of water over to the bed, where he sits and gestures to the floor in front of him. “Sit down there, bridgeboy. I can’t reach you otherwise, you’re too tall.”

Kaladin smirks at him, though it doesn’t completely banish the nervousness still in his expression. He does sit cross-legged in front of Adolin, though, who spreads his legs slightly so that his knees are on either side of Kaladin’s bare shoulders. Strangely, Adolin feels his pulse speed up, his breaths coming just a bit shorter and quieter as he runs a hand through Kaladin’s jet black hair to get a feel for what he’s working with. 

It’s softer than he expects, and not quite as tangled as he thought, either, though his fingers do still catch on several knots. Kaladin takes in a sharp breath at one of them, and Adolin winces in sympathy. “Sorry,” he whispers, trying to gently work through the knots without water first. The soap will help smooth his hair out, but it can’t magically get rid of the tangles. Kaladin stays still and doesn’t make any more sounds or motions, though Adolin can see his shoulders gradually relax as he makes it through the worst of the knots. 

Reaching down to grab the wet sponge out of the bucket, Adolin’s bare chest barely grazes Kaladin’s shoulder, and Adolin jumps so badly he drops the sponge, sitting bolt upright and feeling his heart hammer in his chest. On instinct, he counts out ten beats, though he doesn’t otherwise try to summon his Blade — it’s a habit he got into as a youth to calm himself down, give himself something new to focus on. 

If he tried to summon his Blade right now, it would barely take more than a few seconds. The realization shocks him —  _ why  _ is his heart beating so fast? 

He shakes his head to dismiss the thought and looks down to see Kaladin staring back at him, his brow furrowed and bottom lip between his teeth. After a week sharing a small space with the bridgeman, Adolin can read that expression like a book — he thinks he’s done something wrong. If Adolin doesn’t say something now, Kaladin will get up and probably not speak for the rest of the night. 

Adolin clears his throat, leaning down again —  _ carefully _ this time — to grab the wet sponge. “Sorry,” he says again, injecting cheerfulness into his tone as he steadies Kaladin with a hand on his shoulder and squeezes the water from the sponge onto his hair. It’s still warm, thankfully — he knows from experience how unpleasant it is to bathe in cold water, and he doesn’t doubt that Kaladin does too. These hot baths are a luxury that Adolin appreciates more than he can put into words — he has plans to get Bruil, Haleb, and the other prison guards promotions, or at least pay raises, when he and Kaladin get out of here. 

Dropping the sponge back into the bucket with a soft splash, Adolin uses both hands to gently comb through Kaladin’s black locks, guiding the water all the way through his thick hair and softly tugging out the last of the knots. Kaladin lets out what seems to be an involuntary sigh, his shoulders lowering as he slowly relaxes into Adolin’s touch. 

Once the bridgeboy’s hair is sufficiently wet, Adolin picks up the bottle of soap from where it sits on the bed next to him, pouring a bit into his hand. He probably should use more than he does for himself on Kaladin — after all, the bridgeboy has a lot more hair than he does, in both thickness and length — but Kaladin was so hesitant about the scented aspect of it. To help him be more comfortable with the result, Adolin figures it’s safer to be stingy with it, so he uses just a bit less than he normally does for himself. He rubs his hands together to lather it, then twines his fingers in Kaladin’s hair, now free of all its tangles and knots. 

Adolin starts at his scalp, kneading gently and making sure to massage the soap through all of Kaladin’s roots, while also being careful not to apply too much force. He runs his fingers down the other man’s hair, feeling the smooth curls between his fingers and watching as Kaladin dips his head forward slightly to allow Adolin easier access to the ends of his hair. Adolin repeats the motions several times, even after he’s sure Kaladin’s hair is as clean as it can get. He can just see that the bridgeboy’s eyes are closed and he’s obviously enjoying the treatment, and Adolin is strangely reluctant to stop, knowing that once he’s done, Kaladin will get up and move away from him again. 

After several minutes, though, he can’t reasonably continue anymore, and he rinses his hands off in the bucket as he picks up the sponge again. With a gentle hand on Kaladin’s forehead, he tips his head back, and their eyes meet for the first time since they sat down. The moment freezes, both of them inhaling slightly as they stare at each other, Kaladin’s face upside down to Adolin’s eyes, his body still relaxed between Adolin’s legs. 

(Adolin is caught up in noticing how Kaladin’s eyes are actually a deep blue rather than brown, and so he doesn’t notice how the light of the sphere lamp above him gets just a little bit dimmer when Kaladin gasps.)

Adolin swallows, finally breaking eye contact after a long moment and squeezing the sponge out over his hair, using his opposite hand where it still rests gently on Kaladin’s forehead to guide the water down his hair and away from his face. He repeats the motion several times, dipping the sponge back into the water between each so he can be sure all the soap is rinsed out. He’s tempted to do it a few more times for good measure (and to keep Kaladin where he is -- Adolin  _ really _ doesn’t want him to move away, as he feels like something might break if he lets this moment shatter), but Kaladin is starting to get antsy, shifting slightly where he sits and wringing his hands in his lap. Leaning back, Adolin deposits the sponge back into the water and runs his hands through Kaladin’s hair one more time, ostensibly making sure there aren’t any remaining tangles or suds in it before he pats the man on the shoulder twice. “Alright, all done, bridgeboy,” he says, clearing his throat when his voice comes out softer than he meant it to. 

For all his fidgeting, Kaladin seems to hesitate before he gets up, and Adolin can feel his cheeks heating up as the bridgeman stands and turns around. Adolin can’t meet Kaladin’s eyes, instead busying himself by standing and beginning to scrub his arms down with the abandoned sponge, though the water’s gone cold by now. “Thanks,” Kaladin says, and there’s a tone of  _ something  _ in his voice that has Adolin looking up at him against his better judgement. 

Kaladin’s jaw is tense, but he holds Adolin’s gaze, and there’s a raw honesty in his eyes that Adolin has gotten used to seeing in the bridgeboy, though it’s alongside a kind of vulnerability that Adolin’s never seen from him. “Anytime, Kaladin,” he whispers, and he hopes Kaladin realizes that he means more than just a promise to wash his hair again. At that moment, he thinks that he might do anything just because the bridgeman asked him to.

Kaladin fidgets again, jerking slightly as if he wants to step closer, but instead he just nods firmly and turns away, picking up a towel and beginning to rub it through his hair. Adolin turns away, feeling heat rise in his cheeks again and trying to think through what in Damnation just happened between the two of them. 

\------------

That night, Adolin sips from a brass cup of water, his back to the wall as he sits on the bed. The cot he made up the first night is still at the side of the room, though it hasn’t seen much use -- the bed has co-opted most of the blankets at this point, though there’s really only about five of them total. Kaladin sits next to Adolin in his usual brooding pose, his arms crossed and brows furrowed as he scowls at the door across from them. It isn’t a bad scowl, though -- Adolin’s learned better in the last week how to differentiate the details of Kaladin’s expression, and this one is possibly his most neutral scowl. 

Kaladin yawns suddenly, and his scowl tightens into a grimace as it ends. He pointedly looks away from Adolin, who raises an eyebrow at him. He’s worried for Kaladin; the bridgeboy has hardly slept in the last week, barely catching a few hours a day, unless he’s actually dozing at night while Adolin is asleep himself. Even if he is, it can’t be for that long -- the bags under his eyes have only gotten worse, and he’s begun wobbling during the weaponless katas they go through together before each meal. Adolin’s stopped fighting him on it, though -- Kaladin just clams up and refuses to talk to him when Adolin brings it up, so Adolin keeps his mouth shut. Instead, he stays awake through half the night every night, and every afternoon he tells Kaladin that he’ll keep watch if the man wants to take a nap, then Adolin stays awake for those hours, as well. 

If Kaladin needs to feel safe in order to sleep, then Adolin will do his best to make that happen. 

Adolin isn’t sure how much time has passed when he suddenly feels a warm weight on his shoulder. He resists the urge to jump, instead glancing down to see the bridgeboy, arms still tightly crossed even as he leans against Adolin, already fast asleep. Adolin smiles a bit, using his free hand -- the one not trapped under a sleeping bridgeboy -- to gingerly brush a lock of hair out of Kaladin’s face and behind his ear. Kaladin stirs, and Adolin silently curses --  _ storm him for being such a light sleeper, he needs rest _ \-- before automatically reacting, his hands shifting to guide Kaladin to lie down, one hand still stroking his hair. “Shhh, it’s alright,” he whispers, quickly moving a bunched-up blanket to his lap so Kaladin has a pillow. 

The bridgeman sighs, seeming to relax into his new position, now lying on his side facing the door, his head on Adolin’s thigh pillowed by one of their several blankets. One of Adolin’s hands rests on Kaladin’s back, while the other is still in his hair, instinctively carding through the black locks. Kaladin’s breaths even back out into sleep, and Adolin smiles down at him, glad that the bridgeboy is finally getting some rest. Adolin leans his back against the wall, still watching Kaladin as he continues to play absently with his hair, content to sit watch for as long as Kaladin needs to sleep. 

And maybe he can spend the time figuring out what on Roshar is going on in regards to him and the bridgeman. Adolin recognizes these reactions -- he hasn’t felt this way for every woman he’s courted, but he has a few times. In fact, if he really thinks about it, he could probably count on one hand the number of times he’s  _ truly  _ had feelings for someone and not just had a passing attraction to them that faded as the courtship went sideways. He’s even been attracted to a few men before, even if he’s never actually courted one, so it’s hardly Kaladin’s gender that’s throwing him off. No, it’s the fact that it’s  _ Kaladin _ that surprises Adolin. He and the bridgeboy have butted heads since day one, when he showed up on the Tower and demanded that Adolin retreat and give up on saving his father. 

Of course, then Kaladin went on to save Dalinar himself, and from a Shardbearer, no less. And if he’s to be believed about Amaram -- and Adolin wouldn’t be here if he didn’t believe him -- that wasn’t even the first Shardbearer Kaladin had defeated, but the second. And now he’d helped defeat four more. He’s a darkeyed spearman and former slave, but he’s fought and won against more Shardbearers than almost all of Dalinar’s officers, and he held his own against the Assassin in White. Adolin can’t help but respect him for that -- it would be the worst kind of insult not to, and yet some men have the gall to do it anyway. 

But he’s respected men before without getting  _ intimate _ like that, he thinks as he remembers the events of the night and the past week. Storms, he’s rarely had moments that charged with women he was actually courting. But he thinks back to washing Kaladin’s hair tonight, and how they’ve helped each other wash their backs every night they’ve been in here, and he can’t help but blush like a maiden missing a glove. 

Kaladin suddenly stirs, his eyebrows furrowing as he hums quietly, rolling onto his back with his head still pillowed on Adolin’s thigh. His face spasms into a wince, a mask of fear, and Adolin acts on instinct. He remembers Kaladin jumping into the arena with no Shards, standing back to back with Adolin and fighting four Shardbearers without flinching. This is not a man who should be afraid, especially not while he’s vulnerable and under Adolin’s care. His fingers fall to Kaladin’s forehead, tracing a few strands of hair out of the bridgeman’s face and revealing his brands. Adolin may not be the best at reading glyphs, but he at least recognizes  _ shash _ , and the sight of it has his chest tightening, even as he gently shushes Kaladin and starts talking quietly. 

“If I talk, it won’t wake you up, right? Hopefully it’ll change your dreams away from whatever’s upsetting you so much,” he says, his hand still brushing gently down the side of Kaladin’s face, watching his expression relax slightly. “I remember my mother teaching me the  _ shash _ glyph. I was just a boy, probably about six. We were staying in a keep on the Veden border while my father fought in border skirmishes, and there was a sign near the cliffs that had that glyph on it.” As he speaks of it, his fingertips trace the brand on Kaladin’s forehead, wincing slightly as he imagines the kind of pain it must involve to  _ be  _ branded. A fresh wave of rage towards Amaram washes through Adolin, and he has to take a deep breath to settle himself before he continues. 

“My mother stopped me as I was going out to play and pointed out the sign, then had me trace it with my finger to learn the shape of the glyph. She said to stay away from anything that said  _ shash _ , because it means  _ dangerous _ .” Adolin traces the glyph on Kaladin’s skin again, letting the familiar, gentle wave of grief that comes with every memory of his mother pass. 

“I’ve never understood how you could have ended up with it,” he whispers, his hand moving to rest on the top of Kaladin’s head, fingers threading in his hair. “You’re one of the best soldiers I’ve ever met, and you’ve now proven yourself braver than all of the lighteyes and Shardbearers in that arena.” He thinks about the Assassin in White’s attack, of Kaladin facing down that Blade without flinching, of Kaladin diving out of the hole in the wall to get the Assassin away from Dalinar, his own safety be damned. “Maybe you are dangerous, but only towards those who threaten the people you’ve decided to protect,” Adolin muses, brushing Kaladin’s hair back again. 

Strangely, Adolin feels a small burst of cool air near his left ear, and he turns towards it, but there’s nothing there. He feels a similar breeze along the back of his neck and tenses slightly, looking to the door to see if it’s being opened, which he supposes could cause a draft. The door is still tightly shut, but Adolin doesn’t feel the draft anymore. He cocks his head to the side, thinking about how it felt cool in temperature, but somehow warm in  _ feeling _ . He shakes his head, figuring that he must be getting tired himself. He won’t sleep yet, though. He still has to keep watch over Kaladin -- Adolin will get some sleep later tonight or in the morning, when Kaladin is awake and pacing his circuits around the room. 

Adolin soon forgets about the strange draft, and he doesn’t feel it for the rest of the night, instead going back to quietly telling Kaladin stories of his childhood and his mother, who he has a feeling would have adored Kaladin. He knows, logically, that Kaladin can’t hear him and won’t remember these stories, but it’s nice for Adolin to take the chance to relive the memories -- with the way Father acts sometimes, it can be hard to remember that his mother even existed, so he’s glad to take the opportunity to remember all his own fond memories of her. He wonders if one day he’ll get the chance to tell the bridgeboy these stories while he’s awake, but for now Adolin is satisfied with this. 

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first fic for the cosmere fandom, but i'm really happy to be here! i started working on this during my reread of wor because i said hm. there's a whole lot of queer subtext here i may as well write the five hundredth fic about it. anyway this fic will eventually be shakadolin even though shallan isn't here yet -- it'll focus on missing/rewritten scenes from the books to develop each of their relationships. currently i dont plan to write anything set during/after rhythm of war, but i'll update the tags and mention in the notes if that does happen! so far this fic is planned to be about 5 chapters and run from mid-wor to the end of oathbringer.
> 
> please leave comments and kudos and bookmark/subscribe to the fic if you like it!! those numbers give me that good good validation and encourage me to write!!


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